


Believe and Burn Brightly

by BlueKiwi



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, O Canada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with winters sports is that - follow me closely here - they generally take place in the winter. [Kingdom Hearts modern AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Believe and Burn Brightly

_The problem with winter sports is that - follow me closely here - they generally take place in the winter._

Dave Barry 

oOo

**Montréal-Pierre Elliot Trudeau International Airport** // **Montreal, Quebec**

Inevitably, a record-breaking blizzard hit Montreal that week.

The officials worried, the media obnoxiously fretted, and the world that was watching wondered how the IOC was going to figure out how to unbury the city that had fought for decades to host the Winter Olympics. Flights were delayed from all parts of the world as the storm swept through the city and the surrounding area, leaving it covered in nearly two-and-a-half feet of powdery vengeance, as if clearing the streets themselves had suddenly an Olympian sport. Considering the herculean task awaiting the plows, it wouldn’t have been too far from the truth.

When the snow started to abate early Thursday afternoon, the city shook off its sudden and swift hibernation with a thoroughly Canadian mindset, stamped its feet, and continued on as if nothing had happened in order to finish up last minute preparations with what many surmised was going to be the biggest Winter Olympics ever (although hardly surpassing its more famous Summer cousin, especially the fifty-billion-dollar behemoth that took place two years previously in Rome). Although never quiet and rarely calm, the Trudeau airport’s general bustle increased as the last remnants of the storm passed east towards Maine.

One of the Canadian journalists was having one hell of a time trying to navigate the busy halls of Trudeau, clutching an oversized quad-shot latte in her hands. With hundreds of athletes and officials and tourists arriving by the hour, it was getting frustrating trying to keep everything organized. The monster contenders from the United States, China, and Russia had mostly arrived already, and she had been unable to snag an interview even from one of the lesser known athletes. While she had her nationalistic pride (made even greater for being part of the host country), the money stories had always been with the Big Three.

Sighing, she sipped at her latte, sitting on one of the benches at the drop-off and pick-up site of Trudeau. The stories that everyone wanted were already being monopolized by the big news stations - especially NBC - and reporters from Sports Illustrated: the twin American snowboarding demons, Italy’s adored redheaded figure skater who had been sweeping gold all season, Canada’s outrageous and controversial hockey team, Russia’s revolutionary ice dancing behemoths. At this rate, she was going to have to go through coaches and friends - the agents of the more popular athletes had already mapped out their client’s stories. Let them win any of the medals and it was going to be like striking oil.

She was about to call it a day when she spotted two young people wearing the official red-trimmed white jackets of Team Canada, a giant red maple leaf emblazoned on the back. As she ran through the list of nearly two hundred Olympians that hailed from Canada, she jumped to her feet, preparing to approach them to snag an interview.

She stopped halfway there when the gold-eyed gaze of their coach froze her in her place.

It was only after the trio flagged down a car, loaded up the bags, and finally disappeared behind the tinted windows that she realized who they were: Canada’s single ice dancing pair. She didn’t much follow figure skating, but knew that they were supposedly the successors of the decorated pair that had retired after last season’s World Championships. Their own disastrous performance and subsequently sub-par first season in the senior field was well-known - Russia, Canada strongly believed, would once again triumph in that field as she always did.

Sighing, the journalist sat back down on her bench - maybe somebody worth interviewing would arrive soon.

oOo

Riku adjusted the duffel bag that was slung across his shoulder, peering out from beneath the brim of his red-and-white baseball cap at the masses of reporters and photographers that were milling about the airport. It was controlled chaos as people struggled to make their way through the airport, juggling bags, huge cups of concoctions from Starbucks, and whatever overpriced distractions they had picked up from the airport gift shop. He didn’t like the crowds - it made him feel on edge and nervous for some reason.

“It’s a madhouse here.” Naminé, walking beside him and pulling a battered gray suitcase behind her, looked around at the crowds in the airport. The Olympic spirit was clearly in the air and Canada was clearly proud to show off and welcome the world with open arms. Everywhere one turned, a person would be greeted by Canada’s own national colors of red and white, and also the brilliant silver, orange, and teal of the year’s Olympic colors. She bit her bottom lip as she nearly ran into another traveler, easing out of his path just in time.

The man might have continued on ignorant of nearly pushing over the slight blonde girl, but froze just momentarily underneath the cool amber gaze of the man following behind the pair. Quickly lowering his gaze, the man mumbled an “excuse me” before hurrying off in the opposite direction as fast as he could go underneath his hefty carry-on.

Naminé glanced behind her at their coach and gave him a small and thankful smile which was expectedly not returned. They continued weaving in and out of the masses until reaching the area just outside where a long stretch of taxis, shuttles and other vehicles were waiting to taking officials, athletes, and tourists to neighboring hotels or, more popularly, the Olympic Village. The flashing yellow lights of the airport plows flickered against the other vehicles as drivers and passengers struggled with their bags in the leftover gray and white slush of the storm. Naminé and Riku’s coach easily hailed down one of the empty cabs, throwing open the trunk and allowing the two youngsters to toss their bags in the back.

Riku held open the door for his friend, glancing around the outside of the terminal to see reporters eagerly milling around, searching for athletes to interview. A Canadian journalist caught his eye and sparks of vague recognition lit up her face. Riku only frowned, pretended to look past her, and ducked into the taxi, with their coach slipping into the front seat. The Olympic Village was scarcely twenty minutes away in good traffic, but with the roads still slick from the storm and an abnormal rush due to late arrivals of dozens upon dozens of athletes and officials, the ride itself eventually would take up to three-quarters of an hour.

“I think I liked it better when we were here for Worlds,” Naminé said, peering out at the slowly trailing cars and passing wintery roads. She had stuffed her hands into her pockets, curling up in her seat and looking much younger than her eighteen years. Feathery white-blonde hair framed her pale face as a forlorn look passed over it, one that Riku recognized from any time that someone mentioned Worlds.

How they had even qualified for the Olympics themselves was entirely a fluke. They had placed 16th at Worlds last season and the season hosting the Olympics had been mediocre at best - it had _barely_ been enough to earn Canada a qualification in the ice dancing field for the Montreal Games. Ending up as the country’s only qualified ice dancing team after the golden couple, the couple their coach had worked with for years, retired from competition had been the gossip and joke of the skating world. Better not to mention it - the reporters were probably already having a field day.

“Don’t dwell on past mistakes,” came the short reply from their coach sitting in the front seat. It was typical of him - short and directly to the point.

“Considering how often they’ll be mentioning it? Might be hard to do.” Their coach cut Riku a hard look, and the silver-haired skater narrowed his eyes. “It’s true.”

Naminé bit her bottom lip. “It’s the free dance. It’s always the free dance.”

“Yeah...”

They both fell silent as the taxi continued to weave through Montreal’s streets to the newly-constructed Olympic village in Cité Multimédia. They knew their competition. Figure skating, next to hockey and snowboarding, was always the gem of the Winter Olympics, surrounded by decades of controversy and media speculation. This year, even the most casual viewer knew of the force of Russian figure skating team, led by their indomitable ice dance pair who had already captured silver and gold at the previous two Olympics respectively.

Sometimes, Naminé assumed they were in over their heads. They had already let their coach down this season when they were supposed to be part of the fresh new guard of skaters emerging into senior level. What a joke.

She sighed, leaning over to rest her head on Riku’s shoulder. Some athletes looked forward to the Olympics for years and a part of her was glad that she had the opportunity when so many others didn’t.

That didn’t make the nausea rolling her stomach go away though.

“Naminé?”

She looked up at her coach, who had glanced back at her over his shoulder. Pink tinted her cheeks - he never outright asked if they were alright, and Riku had muttered once that the man probably didn’t care so long as his new charges were put out of their misery. She hastened to answer, to relieve herself of that cool, studious gaze. “I’m fine. Just tired. A bit hungry too, I guess.”

She hadn’t even finished speaking when he had turned around to glare back at their snowy progress through the city. She ducked her head again, her cheeks reddening even more - she shouldn’t have been embarrassed since she wasn’t the one being rude, but...

She quickly tightened her grip on Riku’s hand as he opened his mouth to protest the man’s curt brushoff of her state. Meeting his eyes, she shook her head - it wasn’t worth it, not this early in the Games. Riku scowled momentarily and then relented, relaxing beneath her sudden grip and turning to look out at the passing city. An uncomfortable silence filled the taxi, only interrupted by the nervous humming of the cabbie who slowly made his way through the thick slush and impossible traffic.

Naminé closed her eyes.

Only a little while longer and the season would be over. 

oOo

**Mont-Tremblant and Mont-Tremblant Olympic Village //** **Mont-Tremblant, Quebec**

If it had been any other year, the mountain wouldn’t have been spectacular.

Mont Tremblant didn’t possess the majesty of the more illustrious and famous peaks of Whistler and Blackcomb, but the snowstorm had rendered such a usual observation moot. The mountain had been completely blanketed with snow, a tremendous ghost against the blue winter sky, the slithering trails nearly indistinguishable from the ice-capped evergreens. The biggest festival in sports had also left its mark - the silver, orange, and blue banners of the Olympic colors dotted the mountain, spiraling down to the summit where a picturesque golden-lit town sat. Together, the mountain and the village that was nestled in its humble shadow looked as if they belonged in a quaint holiday snow globe.

“ _Yeeeaaaaaahhhh-ahahaha_!!”

“Ven, would you slow do- _holy crap_!!”

Roxas swung to the left, nearly avoiding a tidal wave of snow kicked up by his brother...nearly. It took everything he had to keep from skidding to a halt or plowing face first down the rest of the slope as he was abruptly blinded by a sheet of powder. Ven, oblivious to what he had just caused, sped past him, hollering ecstatically as he went. Roxas gritted his teeth as he regained his balance and immediately set off after his twin, bits of snow and ice biting at the sparse areas of his face that were uncovered by his ski mask and goggles.

It had been (unsurprisingly) Ven’s idea to take to the slopes the moment the worst of the snowstorm had passed. Roxas, who was the more logical and subdued of the two, had argued that it wasn’t really such a good idea to head off to Mont Tremblant when the opening ceremonies were _tomorrow_ and what did Coach tell them about goofing off when he wasn’t around and damn it Ven, they couldn’t just _leave_ the Olympic Village to “test” out the slopes - this wasn’t Whistler or Aspen or Saas-Fee and would he just a _hold on a second_ , the slopes were still going to be there after Roxas found his gloves.

Not that the courses weren’t fantastic. Even though he and Ven were in different disciplines - something that the media gleefully watched as each brother rocketed their individual sports to new heights simply because of an inherent need to outdo each other - they had managed to sneak across one of the few basic downhill runs that hadn’t been closed off for the Games. Roxas preferred the half-pipe but the heart-pounding thrill of zooming down the face of a mountain, snow and wind biting and whipping at him, was familiar enough after growing up in Salt Lake City.

Not that it made what they were doing any less stupid.

“Ven!” Roxas shouted over the melee of snow and wind and his brother’s yammering. “We should head back!”

“Whoo-hoo! It’ll be fine! He’ll understand.”

Two hours later, Ven was nursing a bruised elbow, their coach - who had long ago perfected the Disapproving Glare That Is Suitable For Ven-Related Hijinks and Misfortunes - was pacing irritably nearby, and Roxas was doing his best to pretend he could see through the ceiling and resist the urge to murmur, “told you so”. Suffice to say, Ven’s wipeout had been hilarious once Roxas realized he hadn’t broken anything serious and knocked himself out of the Games for the next two weeks.

He did feel a little sorry for the poor photographer Ven had plowed into.

“Completely irresponsible,” Leon was murmuring, his arms crossed as he continued wearing the carpet of the twins’ sparsely-decorated room down. He looked back at Ven, who was angelically blinking back at his coach, a cheerful smile on his face. Despite having been their coach for years (or perhaps _because_ he had been), Leon was completely unaffected by the look. “It could’ve been worse.”

“But it wasn’t,” Ven replied glibly, absently prodding the ice pack sitting on the arm of the chair. “I’m all in one piece.”

“I think you lost your brain somewhere on the slopes,” added Roxas absently, earning himself an exaggerated squawk from his twin. He went back to looking at the ceiling, wondering if it was really going to be up to him to settle peace between Ven and Leon. Going into the Games with an irate coach was less than ideal, but then again, maybe it would talk some sense into Ven.

Roxas snorted - yeah right.

“It’ll be fine, Leon,” Ven was saying brightly, bouncing to his feet. “We won’t disappoint you, promise.” He winked back at Roxas. “After all, we’re Canada’s dream team - at least that’s what everyone keeps saying. As long as neither of us breaks our neck within the next few days...”

Leon scowled.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry and I’ll never do it again.” Roxas knew better than to take Ven’s word for that; sure, Ven would never do that again - take to the slopes unsupervised before the opening day of the Montreal Games, at least. The mischievous glint in the other blond’s eyes confirmed his suspicions, but Roxas only once again pretended that the ceiling was incredibly intriguing that afternoon when Leon gave him a frown. These arguments happened so often - Leon and Ven were just too dissimilar to get along well - and Roxas had learned long ago never to take sides.

When he realized he wasn’t going to get any more cooperation from either of the two, Leon pinched the bridge of his nose in a long-suffering gesture that both of them were used to. Ven took this as his cue to leap to his feet, knocking the ice pack onto the messy floor of the room and ignoring the dull throb of pain radiating from his elbow, throwing his an injured arm around the taller man’s shoulders.

“All’s good in the world, Leon. We’re here, we haven’t been arrested yet, and the course should be a piece of cake.” Roxas stifled a snort of laughter at the disgruntled look Leon threw Ven at the mention of getting arrested.

Their coach turned to leave, glancing back over his shoulder at the suite that was currently passing as a sty. His only response was to raise an eyebrow which, in Leon-speak, was “you’ve only been here a day and the room already looks like ground zero of a hurricane - clean it up or die”. Then he was gone, leaving the two brothers alone in the room with each other. Ven flopped back on his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes with a sigh.

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

Ven didn’t move; instead he only grumbled, “Whatever.”

“I’m just saying.”

"Shut it.”

oOo

**Nomura Lounge, Olympic Village //** **Montreal, Quebec**

Beverly Hills? Overrated. The Seventh Arrondissement? Boring. Shibuya? Close but not entertaining enough. No, for the next two weeks, the Olympic Village was, without a doubt, the most exclusive neighborhood in the whole world where no amount of money or prestige could garner entry. Your ticket in was to be one of the fastest, strongest, most agile, and most competitive people on the planet, part of the select few that had the honor of calling themselves Olympian athletes.

The Village was an industrial wonder and a financial headache for Montreal, a masterpiece of green energy and lush mahogany decor and steel and glass. A post office, a bank, a general store, three Starbucks (the local coffeeshops seethed), and two Internet cafes were scattered throughout the Village, alongside a state-of-the-art gym and a non-denominational religious center that _still_ had both the extremely devout and extremely apathetic howling accusations of bias. A park was supposed to be the centerpiece of the Village, with an elaborate glass sculpture of Nike smack in the middle of it (although most people found the 12-foot design pretentious and thought it looked more like a untied shoelace than the goddess of victory). Unfortunately, with the blizzard, it had turned into a makeshift battleground for snowball fights amongst the younger athletes as they dove behind benches and small granite commemorative cylinders for safety - one would get bonus points for landing a snowball at the very top of the hideously-modern sculpture of Nike.

The gathering place of the athletes that were actually staying in the Olympic Village was Nomura Lounge, a huge building that could have doubled as a airplane hangar and named after the man that had been the artistic force behind a good portion of the games (and who had somehow managed to convince the famous fashion designer for the U.S. team to incorporate more zippers onto their official uniform than was strictly necessary). More than one athlete would be reminded of the big cities at Christmastime from the amount of glowing lights hanging from the secluded city-like village - amber and emerald, blue and silver.

All of these facts were currently lost on one of the hundreds of Olympic athletes moving through the lounge. He was currently engaged in the most intense game of foosball he had ever played in his life, muttering curses beneath his breath at his opponent as the plastic soccer ball shot back and forth across the table.

“You’re a lousy cheater and I hope you die.”

The young man on the opposite side of the table laughed, deftly flicking his wrist to block his goal. “Don’t be mad just because I’m better at this than you are.”

He scoffed. “In your dreams.”

“Sora! Vanitas!”

Two nearly identical heads popped up from the foosball death match, and turned similar glares to their approaching teammate (although Sora’s was curbed from the lack of what-the-hell-do-you-want that always persisted in Vanitas’s dark scowls). “What?” they both chorused.

Zack Fair grinned, throwing an arm around Vanitas’s shoulder with enough careless abandon to make the shorter youth scowl. “C’mon, is that anyway to greet your favorite teammate?”

“I will go to the curling team and steal one of their rocks to drop on your head if you don’t get off me.”

“Such hostility.” Zack nodded at Sora. “You need to watch your cousin.”

Sora laced his fingers behind his head, a small smile on his face. “Oh yeah? What makes you think that would _help_?”

“My faith in your ever-generous and optimistic ways?”

Vanitas brushed Zack off as if he were some pesky insect. “Get a life.”

“Your words wound me.”

“Don’t you _ever_ shut up?”

“Hey guys, c’mon.” Sora made a face at both of them. “We’ve only been here for one day. Do you have to start arguing already?” He wasn’t sure if either of them heard him over their squabbling and he only sighed as other athletes began shooting them curious looks as the arguing got louder. He had no idea where the rest of the team was, but maybe that was a good thing. The last thing they needed was for for Wakka or Seifer or Hayner to put their two cents in - Sora wondered why none of them could get along even after playing a full season together. They were at the _Olympics_ , for crying out loud - the youngest team in Canada’s history to play. They should have been happy.

As the volume of the argument increased, Sora made a face, grabbed his jacket, and wandered off in search of food. Apparently, there was a McDonalds somewhere in the village and he really wanted a good old familiar burger. Hopefully Zack and Vanitas wouldn’t kill each other in the few minutes that he was gone. Maybe Terra would find them and break it up.

Or, knowing Terra, inadvertently make it worse.

Ducking past Olympic officials, trainers, coaches, and the countless of athletes that swarmed about in the brisk February air, Sora finally managed to stumble across a restaurant, nearly a dozen languages swimming around in his head from his trek. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the restaurant he wanted.

“How many Starbucks can there _possibly_ be here?” he said to no one in particular, staring up at the familiar green-and-white logo in dismay.

“Three in the Olympic village, probably over a dozen in the metro Montreal area.”

“Oh?” Sora blinked, bringing his gaze down from the store sign to the woman emerging from the front door, holding a tray of four drinks in her hand. She was short but very pretty, with brown hair pulled into an impossibly long ponytail and soft green eyes. She gave him a friendly, kind smile, half-propping open the door with her shoulder. He shook his head vigorously blushing. “No, no - I wasn’t going in. You don’t have to keep it open for me.”

“Ah, it was a rhetorical question then?” the woman said, letting the door close. Sora didn’t recognize her as an athlete - though with a couple thousand athletes participating in the games, he didn’t expect to. He was none too savvy with accents either so he just nodded, a bit abashed. “Not a fan of their lattes?”

“I wanted a burger actually.”

She laughed. “So much grease and fat though.”

“That’s what makes it good!” Sora protested with a grin. “All of those heart-clogging calories.”

“You must be American.”

“Canadian actually. _Ooooo Caaaaaanada_ , and all that.” He wished he had actually grabbed his official jacket - everywhere he turned, people were wearing the colors of the country. Well, except for the woman standing in front of him - she was wearing a pink peacoat with black gloves and a scarf and Sora was almost positive that no country had pink in their flag. “What about you?”

“The country where _real_ espresso is made.” She gestured with the hand holding the tray of drinks, balancing it with a grace Sora could never hope to master. “But I’m not one of the athletes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh! Yeah, well.” Truth be told, he had been wondering that. “But, you know, not everyone here is an athlete. Not that that’s bad or anything - you don’t _have_ to be an athlete to be here. You could be a coach or someone’s sister or one of the Olympic officials or a reporter...well, maybe not a reporter since they’re not allowed in here...” He trailed off, scratching the back of his head. “I’m rambling. Sorry. And your drinks are probably getting cold.”

She smiled again. “It couldn’t make them taste any worse.” She held out her free hand. “My name is Aerith, by the way.”

Keeping an eye on the tray of drinks, Sora shook her head a little less vigorously than he usually did. “Sora.” Tucking his hands back into his jacket pockets, he ventured, “Er, ‘Aerith’ doesn’t sound Italian.”

“And Sora doesn’t sound Canadian.”

Sora opened his mouth to protest and then snapped it shut when he realized that she was right. Instead, he screwed up his mouth in a thoughtful expression and asked, “Are you one of the officials then? Since you’re, you know, not wearing a uniform or anything.”

Aerith shook her head. “No. I’m a choreographer for my little sister.” The look of confusion must have been apparent on Sora’s face because Aerith laughed quietly at his befuddlement. “Figure skaters at senior level usually don’t come up with their programs on their own.”

“Oh.”

Maybe Aerith could tell by the perpetual look of confusion that Sora really had no hope of making go away anytime soon, but she didn’t tease him - instead she only said, “Why don’t you watch her program? Ladies’ singles start on the 18th. ”

Sora didn’t _want_ to say that he had no interest in figure skating and he didn’t really think that it was a valid sport any more than ballet or cricket was a valid sport - it really was just dancing on ice and trying not to fall, right? Still, she seemed really nice and Sora wasn’t going to say all of that to her face - maybe he’d even find out something interesting about it.

He still hesitated though. “We may compete that day.” Sora had no doubt in his mind that his team would make it to the qualification round - the question was if they’d make it there in one piece.

“Oh - bobsled, curling, or hockey?”

How did she know the schedule so well? Sora could barely keep track of when his team was playing. “Hockey.”

“Well, I should wish you luck. Hockey _is_ Canada’s sport.”

“Yeah, no pressure,” Sora replied with something akin to a pout, causing Aerith to laugh. “Hey, this is serious business!”

“It always is.” She absently adjusted the sleeve of her coat and gave Sora a brief but still cheerful nod. “I should probably go before my sister thinks I was kidnapped. It was nice to meet you, Sora.”

“Yeah, you too!” He paused. “Hey, um, listen. I’ll try to see if I can watch for her when she competes. They’ve got televisions all around here so it shouldn’t be too hard...”

“I’ll be sure to tell her she has a new fan.” Aerith winked at him before heading towards one of the resort-like apartments and for some reason, Sora blushed, scratching the back of his head. Sora kept his promises and there _were_ hundreds of televisions between the Village and the arenas that he could watch the program on. It shouldn’t have been too hard. The only problem was trying to escape the rest of his team while watching figure skating of all things.

Right. Super easy.

oOo

  **Le Cheval Blanc, Ontario Street East //** **Montreal, Quebec**

Paine tossed the rum-soaked dishtowel vehemently back into its bucket under the sink, the counter as clean as it was getting this time of night. The bar was more crowded than usual thanks to the influx of tourists and journalists and athletes that had descended on Montreal like a Biblical plague of locusts.

She didn’t pretend to hide her disdain, something her manager had dryly pointed out at the end of one of her shifts earlier that week. Paine didn’t much care - she had her reasons for disliking the infamy that came along with the Games, the hike in taxes to pay for the new and illustrious Montreal Millennium Stadium that hosted the hockey tournaments (as if Canada needed yet _another_ hockey arena), and the media circus that surrounded the athletes as if they were literally demigods walking among common man.

 _At least most of the athletes are too focused to actually get drunk_ , she thought as she leveled an unamused glare at a very drunk reporter that kept unsubtly leering at her backside. Putting a hand on her hip, she demanded, “I’m not picking your drunk American carcass off the floor when you pass out.”

The reporter blinked as the insult slowly sunk into his alcohol-doused brain and it took a few moments for him to form a scowl. “Just give me another drink, gorgeous.”

That didn’t faze her. “You honestly think you’re getting another one?”

“Bitch.”

“Gorgeous to bitch in two seconds - that might be a new record.” Paine looked over at one of the other patrons who was sitting at the bar and absently poking at a half-finished gin and tonic. He looked across at the man, half-saluting his drink with a charismatic, wry grin on his face. “Why don’t you leave the lady alone? It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Language is always the first thing to go,” the stranger commented casually - Paine couldn’t pinpoint his accent. “Along with good manners.”

“Why don’t you mind your own-”

“-goddamned business?” The man chuckled. “Bad habit, I’m afraid. Besides, it’s not that much of a challenge - engaging in a battle of wits against someone who has clearly lost the tiny amount they had in the first place is what I would call a disappointing fluke.” The reporter surged drunkenly to his feet (how he had even followed that was a mystery, but Paine took it to mean that he just assumed there was an insult padded in the wording), but the other man continued as if he didn’t notice. “Calm down, kid. You’ve got a big day tomorrow - don’t you think you should head on out?”

Paine raised an eyebrow slowly as the reporter tried again to process the instructions in his head. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Fine. Don’t. Stay here. Ask the lady out. Add some more drinks to your tab. Party until the break of dawn.”

Now the man was completely confused by the abrupt switch in tactics. He blinked at the stranger, mumbled something about “fucking foreigners” and stumbled away from the bar, more or less in the general direction of the door. Paine watched him go before turning slowly back to the other man who had gone back to downing his drink. “I didn’t need a white knight.”

“I didn’t think so.” Damn, she still couldn’t place that accent. It wasn’t anything Eastern or southern European at least, but neither was it American. “But he kept bumping my elbow. Got a bit sick of him actually.”

She gave him a suspicious look and then shrugged as a gaggle of three tourists - Australians, by the sound of it - loudly started asking for drinks that she had never heard of before in her life. It took a good five minutes of wild gesturing, giggling, and pointed jibes from Paine (“unlike Australia, we don’t have alcohol that spontaneously causes your esophagus to explode”) before the drinks were served (“really, does everything from that country have to attempt to kill you?”).

She had felt the man watching her the entire time, and with an irritated brush of her towel, she looked back at him. “What.” It wasn’t a question.

The man grinned, holding up his hands in surrender. “Nothing, nothing. I was lost in my own thoughts.”

Paine harrumphed. “You here for the Games?”

“You could say that.”

“That’s no answer.”

The man shook his head with a laugh. “Who _isn’t_ here for the Games, in some form or another? Present company notwithstanding,” he corrected at the scowl he received. “Not a fan?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Shame. You might’ve found something you liked if you watched.”

Paine leaned over the counter, dark eyes flashing. “I don’t enjoy watching a pointless spectacle that cost the taxpayers over half a billion dollars.”

“Fair enough.”

Paine raised an eyebrow at him - most people usually were quick to defend the Games and angrily argue that she was being unfair and extremely unpatriotic. This man, with his North Face jacket and black-framed glasses and near-empty glass, had so casually accepted her view. She had worked at the bar long enough to be able to read most people, but this one was a tough case.

“Are you from around here?” Hell, she could at least find out about that accent.

He tilted the glass on an angle, examining it with the same carefree attitude he had shown earlier. It almost seemed that he wouldn’t answer her and she was about to let out a cross sigh when he shook his head. “Nope, can’t say that I am.” He looked back up at her, smirking. “Anyway, I think you can handle yourself for the rest of the night. Try not to beat up any more customers.”

Paine shrugged, dryly noting, “Won’t be my fault.”

He only laughed, slipping out his chair and putting a twenty-dollar-bill beneath his glass. “Keep the change.” Zipping up his coat, he added, “Like I said, watch the Games. You may find you actually want someone to win for change.”

“Unlikely.”

“That’s the spirit.”

After he had gone, Paine went back to usual bustle of the late night shift, wondering exactly how many other strange foreigners were going to frequent her bar. She thought it would be odd for an athlete to show up at a bar only a day before the Opening Ceremony, especially with the single-minded pursuit of Olympic glory ahead of them for the next two weeks. Passing more drinks to the Australians, she figured it wasn’t any of her business - if someone wanted to be the next Bode Miller and crash and burn on a global stage, than it wasn’t her problem.

Hell, he probably wasn’t even an athlete anyway.

oOo

**Hilton Garden Inn //** **Montreal, Quebec**

“Nice digs.”

The door wasn’t even open all the way before there was a shriek of protest, a series of painful-sounding thuds, and a solid crash as the door slammed shut again. There were a few seconds of silence, punctured only by girlish growling and a moan from the hallway.

Finally, Yuffie Kisaragi swung open the hotel room door and glared daggers at the sprawled form lying in the hallway.

“Learn how to _knock_ , Demyx.”

The crumpled heap on the floor muttered, “It was unlocked.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I think my nose is broken.”

“I mean, I should have been in the _shower_!”

“Maybe a concussion.”

Yuffie grinned down at him and playfully nudged the blond with her toe. “Oh, you’re alright. But you could have called first, you idiot.” She helped him to his feet with a grunt before running back into the room, throwing herself on the single plush bed and barely managing to avoid skewering herself on one of the dozens of items that were tossed haphazardly on the coverlet. “And you’re right - they _are_ nice digs. Where’s your room?”

Demyx pretended to limp over to the desk in the room. “Down the hall but who knows if I’ll even be able to walk again - and Sydney is in two years. _Two years_. My dreams of winning a medal have been dashed.”

“Keep talking,” Yuffie replied cheerfully, throwing a pillow at him, “and you won’t be able to feel _anything_ below your waist in about two seconds.”

Demyx stuck out his tongue, grabbing the pillow a second too late and getting a face full of feathers and cloth. Rubbing his nose, he looked over at his friend with something akin to petulance in his expression. “You weren’t watching any of it on the television?” he asked, glancing over at the rerun of some popular reality competition.

Yuffie rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to watch yet. And it’s way too cold outside. I don’t see how anyone likes competing in the _Winter_ Games - most sensible people are inside with the heat and some tea.” She flopped back onto the bed, glaring up at the ceiling. “Why can’t people be more sensible like us?”

“Because we’re too awesome for people to understand?” Demyx sat back in his chair with a yawn. “C’mon, you know they’re probably going crazy at the Village. You know how it is.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ve got to like it. I’m only here to support Zack and to email pictures to the gossip columns when the hockey team eventually murders each other.” She sounded so matter-of-fact that Demyx could help but snort out a laugh. She raised her eyebrow, grinning. “What? You know it’s bound to happen. According to Zack, Terra _means_ well enough but...well...at least I’ll be there when everything explodes. If I’m _really_ nice, I might even get some behind-the-scenes scoops.”

“You’re horrible.” But he was laughing.

“I am the great ninja Yuffie - it is my patriotic duty to find out all of hockey’s dirty little secrets.” She winked. “Besides, it’ll make the Games more fun. You should totally join me.”

Demyx leaped for the remote on the edge of the bed, barely managing to snatch it out of Yuffie’s reach as she realized what he was trying to do. She growled and made to pounce on him, but he took cover behind the chair he had just jumped out of. “Hey, I’m just here to watch.” There was a twinkle in his eye that belied that statement, and Yuffie sat up, blowing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes.

“Oh? Watching anyone in particular?” Did he just blush? Yuffie leaned forward, smirking. “Best friends don’t keep secrets.”

“Unless your best friend is named Yuffie.”

She gave him a wide-eyed innocent look that fooled neither of them. “This friendship is based on trust!”

Demyx blew a raspberry at her. “It’s based on blackmail.”

“It’s only...somewhat based on blackmail. Now give me that remote.”

“You have to come get it.”

Yuffie narrowed her eyes.

Around two minutes later, Demyx was sprawled on the bed with Yuffie sitting lotus-style on top of him, happily switching through the channels despite the complaints from beneath her. She finally halted on some horribly-scripted dating reality show and with a bright smile, settled in to watch the trainwreck-worthy hijinks unfold in front of her.

Life was good.

oOo

**Olympic Village //** **Montreal, Quebec**

This was what it was like to be captain of Canada’s hockey team:

Everyone was watching you - figure skating may have been the darling of the Winter Olympics and snowboarding the wild card, but hockey was essentially at its heart. That had become glaringly apparent once the Winter Olympic hype had begun months ago, as countries began preparing its athletes in the competitions that led up to the Games. Some athletes rejoiced at the mere idea of being able to attend the Games while some countries fiercely trained to defend their streak of medals and their acclaimed reputations.

The host nation, though eager to reap medals that often eluded them, was looking for its own Holy Grail - the Olympic gold in hockey.

Hockey _was_ Canada’s game - it was so entwined with their culture that it was impossible to mention the country without alluding to the sport somehow. The expectations of an entire country lay on the shoulders of one stoic, media-shy young man. It mattered that he has already won the Stanley Cup twice, the youngest captain in the history of the sport to have done so. It mattered that hockey legends had already noted that he will go down in the history books as one of the greats.

It also mattered that the team representing Canada has been less than ideal this entire season.

Rumors circulated that tension ran high between the teammates, and there have been more scuffles on the ice between themselves than between them and their opposing team. Apparently, it was bad enough for their coach, a veteran of twelve seasons, to remark that he was considering retiring “if they don’t get their act together yesterday”, sparking outcry from the hockey community and most of Canada at large.

There was always a scapegoat and being the captain means that he is either destined for glory or shame.

Everyone was watching him and he couldn't mess up.

Unfortunately, Terra had already offended half his team before the first day of the Olympics even began, a record even for him.

It started innocently enough and perhaps that was why it ended with nearly everyone stalking away, leaving one very befuddled captain behind, wondering what in the world he had said wrong. True, not everyone was there but Terra thought it would be important to stress the fact that losing wasn’t really an option and how long had they been practicing and you know maybe they should try to get some practice in right after the Opening Ceremony tomorrow - they really needed it after all.

“Terra,” Sora had said, shifting from side to side, “I know you _meant_ that as a pep talk, but I kinda feel that we’re destined to lose now.”

So now Terra was wandering about the Village, contemplating exactly what exactly he had said wrong and thinking things that only Terra ever really thought about and basically getting the same answer over and over again - he must have misunderstood. People needed to be told when they needed practice especially at the Olympics. Obviously, there was just lack of communication between everyone. He’d have to make sure he told them again and make it more clear.

He stopped when he came to the central area of the Village, covered in tracks and scarred from the snowball fight that had taken place earlier in the day. He didn’t notice the handful of athletes that passed him, whispering gossip and staring at him in surprise. Ignoring all of them, he sat down on one of the snow-dusted benches and looked up at the violet night sky. He could hear the ruckus from the lounge less than two blocks away as athletes continued to arrive from the airport and catch up on the competition. Maybe some of them were making friends, but Terra had more important things to worry about.

Shrugging into his sports jacket and ignoring the chill around him, he quietly contemplated the next two weeks. Not getting to the finals wasn’t an option, he was sure of that.

 _I’ll just have to make sure they know_ , Terra thought to himself, furrowing his brow. _They want it as much as I do, I know it_. He knew his teammates well enough - now if only he could make them listen. That, though, was often tougher than their opponents they faced on the ice.

Maybe if Vanitas stopped wanting to kill everyone, they could start actually getting along. Or if Hayner and Seifer actually stopped trying to one-up each other every time they stepped blade on the ice. Or if Zack actually _listened_ for once instead of playing to the crowd with his usual rakish flair.

Terra crossed his arms. Yeah, this was a problem - and the Games started tomorrow.

 _I should talk to Coach_ , Terra thought, completely forgetting that their coach had probably started drinking himself into an early grave before the season was even halfway through. Of course, that would mean finding him and the aroma from the cafes and restaurants had made sniffing out their chain-smoking, curse-spewing coach almost impossible and besides, it was reasonable that any sensible person would be in bed.

Other than the sheer mountain of a task ahead of him, Terra didn’t see why he wasn’t either.

But for some reason, he didn’t move from that spot for a long while. Instead, he focused his attention back on the sky and tried not to think how in less than twenty-four hours, the world would be watching him, but no one with more intensity than his home country.

No pressure.

oOo

The night before the Opening Ceremony sparked with pent-up energy.

As athletes settled into their suites in the Olympic Village and gentle breezes blew wisps of feathery snow about the cheerfully-lit streets of Montreal, one could almost taste the anticipation that soaked the French-Canadian streets. The crowds were pouring in, the Olympic torch was brightly weaving its way through the city, and the eyes of the world had turned towards the city that had somehow staved off the worst of a blizzard.

Tomorrow, the Games would begin.


End file.
